


Of Shadows and Strengths

by Adadzio



Series: Character/Relationship Studies [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Nightmares, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stannis Baratheon did not like the fires to burn so late into the night.</i>
</p><p>Amidst nightmares of shadows and visions of fire, a king and his priestess draw at least a little comfort from each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Shadows and Strengths

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this little comfort piece after the fiasco that was GoT Ep 5x09. It is even more necessary after the season finale, with the official end of Lobster Flambe.  
> Well friends, it was a good run for our lobster king and the fire priestess.  
> xx

[ _ _ ](http://histruequeen.tumblr.com/post/129115751989/andihaveher-by-kurozukin)

* * *

 

_“I do not like the fires to burn so late into the night,” his mother scolded them, a gentle smile upon her lips. “Off to sleep with you three now.” The youngest boy’s laugh rang out through the empty corridors. It was not truly so late, in fact, the sun had not even set, but Cassana knew the mischief her boys—well, two of them, at least—would get into if they kept all the corridor fires lit. The youngest boy obeyed his mother, and he chased the setting sun to his own chamber._

_On and on, he ran._

_Through the winding corridors of Storm’s End, the boy ran; hall after hall, stair after stair, he ran. He tripped over his own feet, once, twice, and he laughed._

_Sweet Renly, his little brother, the youngest stag. Running, he saw him now, his feet falling into a steady drumbeat, echoing deep against the uneven stones, his laugh chasing the setting sun. The sun fell in a bloody haze of red and orange, and still he ran._

_He chased the shadows of the night now, the beat turning deeper, ominous, deadly; blue shadows, twisting grey shadows, so many shadows overcoming the boy, so suddenly, pounding, roaring, violent—_

_—and then, a sudden blackness. Stillness. The boy no longer laughed, and the boy no longer ran, because the boy was—_

The king’s eyes shot open. After a brief moment of confusion, he steadied his harsh breathing. His eyes fell closed again, blocking the quiet night from his vision.

 _Another bloody dream_ , he thought. _And about Renly, no less._

The king dared to open his eyes, slowly this time, registering the stillness of the night. The copper fire crackled against the pitch black of his chamber.

Stannis Baratheon did not like the fires to burn so late into the night, nor so early into the morning. _A waste of firewood. Winter is not yet come._ He did not like the lull of the fire, he did not like the shadows it cast, and he did not like the heat. Even now, it was stifling. _I am burning,_ Stannis realized dimly. He threw the woolen bedding off his body in a sudden fit of discomfort.

“Another nightmare, your Grace?”

Stannis started at the sound of the red priestess’ melodious voice and the feel of her nails scraping his jaw gently. He had not heard her awaken.

Sometimes he doubted she slept at all; it was not unusual to find her staring into her dancing fires until the dawn broke, her magnificent eyes alight with an unreadable pain, and, occasionally, something more—a sort of ecstatic rapture. _A lovers’ gaze_ , he silently accused her, and then rebuked himself for the thought. Why should he care whom— _what_ —the red priestess set her attentions upon?

Still, a small part of him believed that she feigned sleep for his benefit. He would never admit it, but _she_ knew he slept more soundly with her by his side, when she could soothe away his fitful nightmares and the overwhelming anxiety that bore upon him night after night. _A king with no kingdom must still bear his duty, and at great cost_ , she had murmured after one of his nightmares, her fingers painting reassuring circles upon his shoulders as he confided in her. There were many things Stannis did not even wish to understand about his priestess; all the same, he sensed that she needed no great amount of sleep, only her flames for strength. And so she surely “slept” for his sake, so that he might have the energy to fulfill his duties to the Realm. It was a logical conclusion, not an emotional one.

Still, he realized that she had genuinely fallen asleep tonight, for her voice was heavy with sleep. He dared to glance at her lithe form next to his, stirring lazily, copper hair strewn between them. Those ruby eyes were still closed, eyelashes framing her pale cheeks.  
_Good_. Sometimes the unnatural scarlet gleam of her eyes unnerved him, exceedingly so.

Other times, he did not give a damn about her eccentricities, what she did, nor the details of their sleeping arrangements; he just wished he could stop her from sneaking into his chambers so late after the servants—and his wife—had retired.

It wasn’t that he _minded_ terribly when she came to him in the night. In those nights when he spotted her red silks silhouetted by the fire, he found an odd comfort in the ease of their routine, the way the fabric fell away from her body to the cold stones below, the feel of her bare form curling against his own, limbs entangling and sighs mingling. But those nights were not significant. It really did not mean anything when she pressed soothing kisses against his temple and neck and jaw, or when her warm little hands would leave their brands on his chest, when he would wake to find himself intimately close to her, fingers entwined and foreheads pressed together. Of course, he always came to his senses and impulsively jerked away, but her presence in his bed did not particularly _bother_ him. Why should it? Their nights together meant nothing. An arrangement of convenience, really.

The problem was just that she always lit her bloody fires. And her fires were too hot, and they cast so many shadows, moving and devouring the room in an ominous dance, hour after hour, unending and unnerving. Ironically, the fires she brought with her heightened his nightmares. She found beauty and divinity in those shadows, but he did not, and he did not like the fires to burn so late into the night.

Melisandre’s eyes finally cracked open, and he saw naked worry in those bewildering eyes now. _I did not answer her question,_ came his dull understanding.

Stannis cleared his throat uncomfortably as he stared resolutely at the ceiling, wishing she would remove her hand from where it now lazily skimmed his cheek. He was already burning.

“It is not your concern.”

Melisandre did not bother to keep the hurt from her face. She exhaled—unnecessarily forcefully, he thought—and shifted on her side to address him, much to his dismay. Cornered, he felt. Like a damned animal in a cage.

“It _is_ my concern. _You_ are my concern, my king.”

After a long moment of mutual scowling, Stannis sat up with a harsh sigh. To his further irritation, Melisandre was close behind, locking her arms like a vice around his scarred torso before he could flee the bed and her questions. She sighed sadly, though he hadn’t a damn clue why. When she pressed her lips against the back of his neck, he shivered involuntarily. _Why? How can that be, when she is burning, and I am burning…?_

“Tell me what you dreamt, Stannis.” Her soft whisper cut into his iron resolve, but only a little. He opened his mouth to speak, and nothing came out. He shook his head in frustration and tried again.

“Renly.”

A solemn silence of understanding descended upon the couple, each lost to their own regrets, their own dark memories of the sins they had committed in the glow of past fires and shadows. He remembered the look on her face after she had returned (from gods knew where) that first time she gave birth, the second time even. It was burned into his memory, that unreadable expression which had signaled the slow destruction of his own strength and the beginning of his unending nightmares.

He remembered the first time he had said it aloud, how it had wrenched his gut: _I murdered my brother._ It cut like a knife even now, even as he searched for some semblance of solace within his thoughts. Stannis Baratheon was not a man prone to soul-searching, and little wonder—he doubted he even had a soul at this point. He was nothing more than a shell of a warrior, a broken king, and a brother unloved.

We _murdered him_ , she had said. _Let me share this burden with you._

Stannis glared at the fire for a long while, grateful that Melisandre said nothing now. Unsurprisingly, the red priestess remained in her own trance with the flames, and she did not offer her usual comforting words and calming caresses. _I am so tired,_ he thought suddenly, and a somber pain washed over him at that. For the second time that night he failed to comprehend the reason for such foolish sadness. The king roughly pried the priestess’ arms from around his body and shifted them both back into a lying position.

An uncomfortable moment passed. Stannis realized with immense irritation that he was now cold. _Will this night never cease to annoy me?_ Before he could think clearly and change his mind, he brought Melisandre none-to-gently back against his chest, hands settling on the smooth skin of her bare waist. Sighing wearily into her crimson hair, he prayed to whomever would listen that she would stay silent. _Gods, I do not wish to speak with her…only to sleep in peace, just this once._

Melisandre seemed to sense this, and wisely held her tongue. Still, she could not help the small smile that crept onto her lips, enjoying the strange comfort of his tense embrace. Slowly, they both relaxed into the stillness of sleep again. Her mind began to drift back into the world of her own troubled dreams, nightmares of her past; men with leering faces and the very pain of breathing each day, a life she had blocked from her mind, the days of a slave named Melony, Lot Seven—  
She heard Stannis speak, so quiet that she barely understood him.

“I do not like the fires to burn so late into the night.”

Melisandre’s train of thought halted completely, and she nearly laughed aloud at his words. _Only Stannis Baratheon would think of such things in the dead of night._ Yet she could not laugh, could find no amusement in her king’s brusqueness tonight—only sober reality. The priestess knew him better than anyone; she knew that her beloved fires cast looming shadows, and she knew that those shadows would continue to haunt her king until the day he died, only growing larger as the nights grew colder. _Yes, winter is coming._

Still, the night was dark, and she would find refuge in his bed as long as he permitted it. Thus the priestess remained. She would sleep for now, safe against her king’s lean, weary form. He would complain now and again, yes, but the truth was that they had reached an unspoken compromise long ago. She believed—no, knew—that he would protect them both against the shadows of the night, and the fires, at least, would burn into the morning.

And so they did, on and on, and for once, the pair fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, until all their twisted memories had faded into dawn.


End file.
